My baby,
They say autism affects 1 in 68 kids. One in 42 of those kids are boys.
You won the lottery, kid. You are my special 1 in 42.
You are considered high functioning. I hate that phrase. It sounds like someone's trying to sell me a new computer that still runs on Windows 95.
You straddle a line between two worlds: your world, where sounds and smells and tastes and sights and people and crowds are too much for you, and the world your brother inhabits, where you're expected to deal with it by people who don't understand. They see a little boy who can talk and seems friendly and don't see past it to what's in your mind. They don't see how hard you work every day to "fit in," how you fall apart when we're in the car because it was too much to expect from such a little boy for whom even the sound of the car door shutting is too loud.
They look at you and they think "Brat. Spoiled. Overly indulged." if they have the misfortune of watching you fall apart. If they've caught you on a good day, they think "Intelligent, but 'normal.'" They don't see what I see.
I see a fighter. I see a ball of energy rolled into one little boy. I see a little boy who had the odds stacked against him for so many things, and showed them all what the odds meant: exactly nothing. I see green eyes that look so much like mine, and dark brown hair that curls when we let it grow and makes you look so big when we cut it off, and a smile that lights up my world.
I see the little baby they laid in my arms the day you were born, and the handsome two year old who toddled into my kitchen for a cookie the day they took his casts off-the first time you ever walked, even when they swore you wouldn't, all because you wanted that cookie.
I see my saving grace.
You are beautiful in every way. Even on your bad days, I still, at some point in the day, thank God that you are mine.
I love you moon back to pizza, baby boy, and I will fight your fight with you until all the pieces fit.
~Mommy
They say autism affects 1 in 68 kids. One in 42 of those kids are boys.
You won the lottery, kid. You are my special 1 in 42.
You are considered high functioning. I hate that phrase. It sounds like someone's trying to sell me a new computer that still runs on Windows 95.
You straddle a line between two worlds: your world, where sounds and smells and tastes and sights and people and crowds are too much for you, and the world your brother inhabits, where you're expected to deal with it by people who don't understand. They see a little boy who can talk and seems friendly and don't see past it to what's in your mind. They don't see how hard you work every day to "fit in," how you fall apart when we're in the car because it was too much to expect from such a little boy for whom even the sound of the car door shutting is too loud.
They look at you and they think "Brat. Spoiled. Overly indulged." if they have the misfortune of watching you fall apart. If they've caught you on a good day, they think "Intelligent, but 'normal.'" They don't see what I see.
I see a fighter. I see a ball of energy rolled into one little boy. I see a little boy who had the odds stacked against him for so many things, and showed them all what the odds meant: exactly nothing. I see green eyes that look so much like mine, and dark brown hair that curls when we let it grow and makes you look so big when we cut it off, and a smile that lights up my world.
I see the little baby they laid in my arms the day you were born, and the handsome two year old who toddled into my kitchen for a cookie the day they took his casts off-the first time you ever walked, even when they swore you wouldn't, all because you wanted that cookie.
I see my saving grace.
You are beautiful in every way. Even on your bad days, I still, at some point in the day, thank God that you are mine.
I love you moon back to pizza, baby boy, and I will fight your fight with you until all the pieces fit.
~Mommy
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